


The Ties That Bind

by lapetitemort20



Series: Bleeding Love [2]
Category: Figure Skating RPF
Genre: BDSM, Bondage, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Kinbaku, NSFW, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rope Bondage, Shibari, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-29
Updated: 2019-10-29
Packaged: 2021-01-08 01:49:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21227789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lapetitemort20/pseuds/lapetitemort20
Summary: The bondage fic you didn’t ask for but got anyway...





	The Ties That Bind

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mycatcanwrite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mycatcanwrite/gifts).

> So Tessa posted THAT photo and y’all know I can’t resist any opportunity for smut. But I ended up with this instead. I hope you’re not mad. 
> 
> This falls into my Bleeding Love universe, you don’t need to read the others before this one as I think it stands on its own, but of course, I would recommend it for context and backstory 😝
> 
> This is for @Mycatcanwrite whose birthday just passed but I couldn’t get my butt in gear for the actual date. Thank you to betas @RookandPawn1 and @redrover_15 for your invaluable comments. This fic would not be possible without the consultation of D who knows a thing or two about rope tying, so thank you!

His hands are patient. Practiced. Precise.

He knows all about waiting. It’s all he’s ever done. But now, now feels like the right time.

He’d taken lessons over the years. Whenever he was in Japan he would commit to being the most disciplined of students, learning and relearning from the best _kinbakushi_, practising repeatedly on the bodies offered up to him.

It calms him, to give his fingers a goal. It allows his hands, known for roaming, roving, constantly moving and fidgeting, to be occupied by a single task, deftly weaving in and out, knotting, looping, binding.

It gives him untold pleasure that the act of restraining can offer up so much liberty. Release. Expression.

As he criss-crosses the bamboo silk ties to bind her hands in a simple one-column tie, he remembers the thrill of doing this for the first time. He knew it would be with her, always her, ultimately.

And now, finally, it is.

He wasn’t actually the one who brought it up. She did. But not all at once.

The first time she had mentioned something wasn’t so much what she said, but how she looked, when he was lacing up his boots. They’d done it together a million times before, side by side. But this time she suddenly seemed paralysed in her own lacing, watched him intently as he flicked his hands back and forth methodically, weaving, tightening, checking.

“What?” he had raised his eyebrows.

She shook her head slowly, her curls caressing her shoulder. “Nothing,” but her voice was a little hoarse and her eyes blown wide.

Later, after years of dancing around their physical relationship, he found out how much she loves having her hands held hostage. That first time... god, he’ll always remember it. Him pinning her arms above her head as he parted and entered her so slowly. The way they both almost headily fell apart in that long-anticipated instance. The way the years of longing, want, desire came down to that one heavy and significant moment, its weight beginning to dissipate once he was buried to the hilt inside her, sheathed by her intoxicating walls. And then her cries when he fucked her steadily even as his whole body shook with sheer rapture.

When she finally felt confident to ask for what she wanted, they had progressed from him holding her down to playing with scarves. _Tie me up_, she had said. It wasn’t a request. He was only too eager to comply. This was every dream of his come true. He didn’t yet let on of the skills he knew, although the easy way he knotted the scarves securely around her delicate wrists may have given him away somewhat. Their coming together that night might have been one of their most explosive.

The way she writhed beneath him as he took her after lingering on her pussy with his mouth and fingers, unable to touch him, impuissant to control her own pleasure. It made him feel a mix of gratitude and power, that she had entrusted her sexual gratification to him. 

But this time it’s all him. He had been following her cues the last few months and they’d been taking it easy, easing into the rhythms of a well-known intimacy like strangers in the night. It almost feels brand new.

Perhaps because it is.

Her body isn’t the same after their baby, the light of their lives. It’s softer, nurturing. And yet moving inside her is indistinguishable, her tight heat wrapped around him like a vice, milking him desperately as she shudders and falls into the aether, echoed by her passionate moans of ecstasy, followed immediately by his own.

Tonight though, was the right time. He just knew. 

“Do you trust me?” he had asked in a tone that she recognised as arousal.

They had been lying in bed, each with a book in hand. Their little one had gone down to sleep a couple of hours earlier. They had time. She glanced over to him and replied, “With my life.”

He had set his book aside and shifted to look at her with dark eyes. “Then come here, baby. I want to try something new.”

She had bitten her lower lip in expectation. When he was authoritative like this she knew it was his dominant side that needed feeding. And _fuck_ she knew he had been starved. Come to think of it, so was she.

So she had thrown her book across the room, causing him to laugh with his entire body, and straddled him directly. “What do you require, sir?”

_Goddammit_. She knew he couldn’t resist that.

He claimed her mouth in a demanding kiss as he palmed her ass, grinding her down fully onto his erection.

“Oh,” she murmured. She was still surprised by how much he wanted her still. If it were possible, he seemed to want her more but he had been so respectful of her journey to healing, the changes in her body and emotions, and her new role as a mother.

“Wait here,” he mouthed into her kiss.

He pulled her off him, already missing her weight on his groin. When he returned, he asked her to _put this on_.

It’s his kimono. The one he received as a present from one of their shows in Japan.

She stood in the middle of their bedroom and shucked off her jersey pyjamas off quickly, and waited for him to clothe her. What had he planned for her?

He gazed at her as he padded silently towards her naked body, his black cotton pyjama bottoms slung low on the cuts of his hips.

_Fuck, she’s beautiful_. This body that has given him so much.

Gold, silver, love, life.

She was still strong beneath her new curves, her porcelain skin almost translucent in all its glory, marked lightly by her battle scars on the under side of her slightly rounded belly. She didn’t look like she had birthed a miracle at all, and yet there she was, trying not to be self conscious.

He slipped the indigo blue and white silk kimono onto her tenderly. It looked so big on her, but there was something about her in his clothes that brought out his protective instinct. “Don’t. Don’t do that,” he whispered into her neck as he pried her hands away from wrapping around her body. “You’re beautiful, and I love you.”

She closed her eyes and leaned into his chest behind her.

“And I want you,” he punctuated with lips against her ear, his hands smoothing the lapel of the kimono over her breasts. His hands were by her hips then, pulling her towards him. “I’m going to show you how much. Will you let me?”

Whatever he was about to do to her, she would gladly pay the price. Her body had always belonged to him, how could it not? The way her muscles moulded over the years to fit his hands, the way her height matched his, in a way that they would always be joined perfectly, the way they looked at each other, no matter what was going on off the ice.

“Yes,” she breathed. “Yes.”

And that’s when he brought out the ropes.

She didn’t even flinch. If anything, she rubbed her thighs together a little tighter. He knows how much she loved being restrained. But they’d not done this before. Not like this. 

Traditionally, the Japanese _nawashi_ use _Asanawa_, a hemp or jute rope, six to eight meters long. He’s a purist in many ways, but in this, he prefers the the newer, natural fibres because it’s softer and doesn’t cause an allergic reaction. The last thing he wants to do is hurt her. As if he could ever.

There would be time enough for questions later, and she had many. She closed her eyes again, choosing to focus solely on the warmth of his bare chest that bled into the back of the kimono and against her skin. The lights of the bedside lamps had been dimmed, when had Scott done that? Right then it felt just like how they used to withdraw into their bubble when they were competing.

Just them. Nothing else existed.

They had stood on the sisal mat at the foot of their King size bed, the coarse texture of it in stark contrast to the smooth glide of the bamboo silk ties he held in his fingers. He had slid his hands down her arms, folded them behind her, working the rope around her wrists in a series of intricate loops, bringing them to the present moment.

He hears her draw a shaky breath. The sound of his breath is heavy too, rasping unevenly in the stillness of their bedroom. They are both on edge, yet the gentleness of his hands, the discipline and meticulous way in which he begins to bind her calms them both.

It’s almost meditative.

Hypnotic.

And so very erotic.

It feels like a performance, not dissimilar from what they’ve done in the past. They are both artists in this - him, the rope master, and her, his muse - except there’s no one to perform for, no one to judge them, save themselves.

Once he’s finished binding her hands, he begins to encircle the rope around her arms and chest several times and then connect the ties back to her hands. He has to step back for a moment to admire his handiwork, so intense is the absorption in his task. The ropes run in an intersecting asymmetrical pattern that crisscross her breasts, waist and ribs, almost like a harness over the kimono. All the times he had done this before on faceless bodies, even the first exhilarating time, could not compare to this.

She’s a goddess and she is _his_. Seeing her like this, after countless years and dreams, only serves to stoke his desire. And so he draws a little harder on her binds and kisses her with an ache that doesn’t surprise him.

The pressure in which he pulls the rope taut against her body and across her breasts leaves her breathless. But his kiss gives her life again.

There is no pain. Only suspense of what is to come.

There is also surrender. It is more than letting go. It’s about trust. Trust in his education, for him. And for her, it’s in his dedication to her welfare.

She can barely see through her heavy lidded eyes, it’s almost as if she is in a trance. She feels his soft breath against her skin, as he circles around her and grazes against her body carefully. He’s scarcely even touched her, focusing exclusively on the ropes and the intricate patterns he has made. Every movement he makes requires the utmost focus. After all, what they’re doing here is an act of creation, much like the way they conceived their child.

She needs something from him but she doesn’t know what she’s allowed to do. Because she’s restrained, every infinitesimal movement becomes heightened. Her senses seem to zone into the pressure exerted by each length of rope that bites into every covered square inch of her skin. So she keens softly the next time he pulls firmly on the ropes, the tension of it stimulating erogenous zones she didn’t even know existed.

He senses the depth of her aching, yearning. With his long, graceful fingers, he starts pulling the kimono open beneath the knots in order to reveal her body. The cool air hits her breasts, chest, torso and stomach, whilst the sheer contact of his hands on her burning skin causes her to push into his touch and moan a little louder.

Her anguish moves him to skim the pads of his fingers lightly up and down the exposed parts of her flesh now. Her freckle-dusted décolletage, her pink and erect nipples, the subtle grooves of her abdomen. There are fresh throaty sounds from her, but he silences her with a tender sweep of his lips. She wants more, for him to kiss her deeply as he did before, and then to drive tirelessly into her soaking, waiting core, but she knows he’s not finished with her yet.

“Please,” she whimpers. “Scott, I need you.”

He licks at her mouth and soothes her, “Shhhh, baby. I got you.”

She mewls in helplessness, but she hasn’t used their safe words yet, so he knows he can push her still farther.

Yet this is only the beginning. She hasn’t tasted the beauty of rigging, what is considered the crux of _kinbaku_’s emotional and sensual connection. If she enjoys the art of erotic bondage as he knows she must, there is so much more for them to explore together. There are specific _katas_ and aesthetic rules to consider, geometric and asymmetric patterns that contrast with the natural curves and smoothness of the human body.

There’s still beauty in the simplicity of these rope patterns he is tying now though. And the meditative aspect is as powerful, if not more pure and distilled. The razor sharp focus he was known for on the ice serves its purpose - every knot symbolising a transition, every twist the glide of the blade, every turn the deep edges.

He attaches another length of rope to the tied column of her hands and back. Ordinarily, if they had a bamboo rig, he would loop this rope up and over to support her weight, securing it back to one of her legs so that she would be lightly suspended. But considering her leg injuries, he’s always been mindful that he would have to tread carefully and maintain her circulation, should they ever progress to it.

He pauses for a moment, touching her cheek lightly with his knuckles to make sure she’s alright. He doesn’t need to speak, they’ve always had a language beyond words. It’s in their eyes, and looking at her now, he can tell she’s already on the path to euphoria. She’s always been sensitive to the ‘runner’s high’ when they were competing. It’s no different now.

Just a little more, and he’ll give her what she hungers for. But in this instant, it’s what he needs.

And so he leans her back against him, directing her easily to the floor. He holds her in his arms for a long moment, grateful for her vulnerability, whilst they breath in sync with each other.

Once she’s ready, and he knows because she makes a needy sound, he spreads the bottom half of the kimono open and parts her legs, his fingers pressing into the milk white of her flesh. She acquiesces immediately with a nearly imperceptible shiver.

He threads the rope that he had bound to the ties at her hands between her legs. Using the rope as an extension of his hands and fingers, he strokes against the juncture of her thighs and pussy, before he makes a knot right where her clit is and pulls the slack in the rope firmly between her folds, circling around her waist into a _matanawa_ tie.

The pressure is indescribable. It’s pleasure and pain. Wanting and calming.

She wants to buck against this contact but she can barely move. It almost feels like she is in a state of interoception - a nuanced sensitivity towards her breathing, heartbeat and every nerve ending. She rolls her hips so slightly so as to create friction that she so urgently needs but he stills her body with the flex of his hands.

He holds her there for what feels like forever, but just as she thinks he will never let her go, he takes the remainder of the rope and slides it against her nipples, the tension quivering against her clit. She gasps from the sudden abrasion, the roughness of it making her want his hot wet mouth to suckle her.

There’s a pressure building up inside her, and he knows, just by the hitching of her breath that she’s almost there. She’s biting back her cries but now he’s moved the end of the rope against the graceful column of her throat. He doesn’t actually choke her, but the opposing sensations of the feather light pressure he applies whilst kissing the side of her neck and the uneven vibrations of the cord against her pussy is enough for her to unravel completely.

It’s a gentle rolling of energy that implodes within her centre and spreads out to all her extremities.

It’s a flush that warms her entire body from the scarlet vigour of her cheeks to the thrumming throb of her cunt.

It’s the tears that well up in her eyes and the laugh sob that escapes from her, every single emotion since she’s given birth eight months ago breaking loose from inside her. Every moment of being in control, every instance of pretending to know what she’s doing, every second of trying to hold it all together.

_This_, what Scott’s giving her, is complete and utter deliverance. After years of struggling for control and dominance in their sport, and months of wrestling with self-doubt and the unattainable standards of perfection in motherhood, this release is more than necessary. To finally be able to feel without thought or repercussion.

The fact that she’s restrained means she can’t hold on to him as she cascades into ecstasy, but he’s right there with her, holding her through her rippling spasms and low keening. He feels a rush of adrenaline that he has been able to make her come, just like this, and that this, _she_, is his masterpiece. It’s overwhelming for him that his oeuvre, of which she so willingly has become a part of, is also her salvation.

He begins to slowly unwind the twists and turns of every knot, every loop, every bind, every fastening, every tie. Step by step. If they are soulmates bonded for life, then these ropes represent their tangled fates and intertwined strength.

Joined together, stronger in unison.

He gathers her in his arms once she is thoroughly unbound, holding her close, touching softly and drinking up her essence; her sweet scent, her limbs askew, eyes heavy, lips parted. There’s the look of ‘rope-drunk’ on her face, and an uncontrolled giggle bubbles up in her throat. This spiritual bliss is characteristic of the physiological phenomena in the sub space - the release of endorphins and hormones, as well as emotional connection, being the ultimate goal of the erotic bondage of _kinbaku_ and the entire _shibari_ experience.

He’s keenly aware that her physical release from his bonds affects her carnally, as much as it does metaphorically. Her body is still trembling from the exultation, so he strokes her soft curls now damp with sweat, and talks her through her ecstasy in hushed, reassuring tones.

Once she returns to herself, he runs his hands up and down her body, over the slight indentations where the rope dug into her skin and whispers how much he needs her. He lifts her back onto the soft, cloudy down of their bed, caressing her softly as he peels his kimono off her body. She’s clutching on to him as he kicks off his pyjama pants at long last, his cock hard and ready with yearning.

When he finally enters her, both their eyes widen in pleasure and dizziness from the pure sensation of skin touching skin, heart beating against heart, mouth engulfing mouth, one soul bleeding into the other.

After the buildup of their rope play, there is only one way that this is going to end. He’s still overpowered by the entire experience. It’s everything he dreamed of when he first started those lessons so many moons ago, willing it, wishing it to be her. Always her. _Only her_.

His rhythm quickens as he rides her gently yet desperately at the same time, all hands, mouth, and tears. Now it’s her turn to soothe him with her words, her hands gripping his hair, whispering _how beautiful he made her feel, how freeing it was to just be, how she could never, would never deny him this act of creation_.

He tries to slow his hips snapping in to her but what she’s saying and the way she’s arching her back, her loins lifted, circling back into him makes him lose control. After her total submission with the ropes, the balance is slowly but surely shifting back to her. She takes over, because it’s what he needs, his own release from the utter concentration it took to tie her correctly without hurting her so immense, and just as powerful.

When he orgasms, the controlled adrenaline surge he felt in the quiet rope tying moments comes crashing through. He pumps his creamy come inside her walls with a strangled, guttural groan, followed closely by her own breathy cries, unbridled now in her writhing and pulsing. It’s like they’ve just set the world on fire.

She feels free. She feels vulnerable, raw, yet paradoxically strong and consummately connected to him. And that’s exactly what is mirrored back to her in his peaceful expression.

Later, after they spend a long, hot shower together, sloughing off the heaviness of their altered state, they find themselves wrapped up in each other in the warm cocoon of their pristine white bed, the ropes now carefully cleaned, coiled and stored. It’s still early enough, their little one still fast asleep, and life goes on as normal.

But like that one night three years ago, they are forever changed. She whispers to him three things as they languidly kiss goodnight, their limbs encircling each other’s, much like the ropes which inextricably link them with one another.

_Thank you so much. No matter what, we’re together. No matter what, I love you_.

**Author's Note:**

> Fun fact: Kinbaku refers to the art of erotic bondage while Shibari refers to the act of tying in general. 
> 
> As usual, let me know your thoughts on the comments below and/or on Twitter at @lapetitemort20 😘


End file.
